


This is Life with You in It

by Dawnwind



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 02:57:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9414914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnwind/pseuds/Dawnwind
Summary: Since James isn't attracted to any specific type, will he ever find a partner?





	

James Hathaway had never had a type. He didn’t prefer blondes over brunettes nor had given much thought to the merits of slender versus buxom. Hadn’t actually thought much about it. Beauty was one part of the whole person. He quite enjoyed the company of girls, women, ladies. It was the nature of a male to be attracted to the female, to multiply and be fruitful, according to the Bible. He’d always planned to follow that directive—but without a type to pursue, he’d found he had little incentive to achieve the goal.

In his teenage years, he’d been introverted and—while not shy, exactly—he hadn’t sought out girls. That was not to say girls didn’t hover; they had. He’d gone to a few dances, escorted female friends to the cinema or fish and chips on a Saturday evening. Girls had simply never been his primary focus. Given a choice, James would spend all his free time reading and playing the guitar. Solitary pursuits, to be sure, but they filled his soul with light. 

There had been a few once he got into college: Clara, who’d shared his love of the Divine. A mite too strongly, since she’d taken the veil and married Jesus. He still saw Sister Mary Joseph now and again around Oxford. 

How could he forget Elizabeth? She’d gone after him with a vengeance, waiting impatiently for him to succumb, until he realised her dream was to defrock a priest. Not difficult to divest himself of her since he hadn’t yet entered the seminary.

Planning to be ordained had quashed other burgeoning ideas of finding a mate. Priests, at least in the Roman Catholic tradition, were celibate. Such a lofty, nearly unattainable goal, using chastity to find the spiritual in an increasingly secular world. Vowing to be pure, aesthete and faithful to the word and sacrament. James had always pushed himself to rise above the pack, to be the best. Some would even say he’d punished his spirit to no avail. 

In the end, it had been others in his sphere who crushed his values, causing him to re-examine what was important. Love was necessary for life, wasn’t that true? With no reason not to, he’d turned back to the fairer sex. Used his guitar as a lure, aware that his lanky blond looks attracted women like bees to a flower. One night stands followed, the occasional short affair, but nothing that brought peace, a feeling of ultimate joy. 

He saw his few old mates all pair off and drift away into the kingdom of marriage, leaving him alone. He wasn’t unhappy—far from it--but there were more and more occasions when loneliness did surprise him. He hadn’t expected that. 

Becoming a detective sergeant filled his hours with work, much of it satisfying. The horrific, cruel and violent he could shut away during the day, for the most part. The crimes lingered in his imagination, haunting his dreams at night, leaving him far, far less interested in dating. His guitar was his solace, taking him to places where the blood, fear and hatred would fade away. 

He did try, really. DS Fiona McKendrick proved a diversion, and he thought, for a short time, that there might be something between them. But she’d been ambitious, in pursuit of her own goals, and he hadn’t figured into her plans. That had stung but she’d faded from his memory quickly enough.

Increasingly, he found his consolation in work. Not just the satisfaction of putting a criminal or murderer behind bars but working out the puzzle alongside his governor, Robert Lewis.

Taking his usual five minutes for a fag outside the Oxfordshire police department, James inhaled, squinting at the sun through the haze of bluish smoke. His thoughts turned regularly to Lewis. More often than he expected—and never in an unpleasant manner. He genuinely liked Lewis, despite their obvious differences. Lewis was a pragmatic, practical man originally from the north of England. He’d led, from all accounts, a very traditional life. Married with two children, and then widowed, he’d had a long career in the squad. Lewis had risen from DS to DI while working with the legendary Inspector Morse. 

James had had an admittedly eccentric childhood, trundling in the wake of his father whenever the elder Hathaway changed occupations. He’d excelled in school and sport, his intellectual acumen frequently leagues ahead of his peers, which he’d learned not to hide. In his first few years on the police force, other coppers had viewed him as emotionally buttoned up and too scholarly. This had caused acrimony, particularly with superiors who disapproved of their bagman acting as if he could work out the evidence without their guiding hands. James’ natural tendency to be quiet, cerebral and solitary had caused real animosity with his original DI, Charles Knox. 

Not Robbie Lewis. Their first investigation together had definitely been on the awkward side, but James had always attributed that to Lewis’ jetlag and sleeplessness more than anything else. Lewis was the only inspector who’d listened to his opinions and actually encouraged James to take initiative; following leads and ferreting out suspects. This freedom to think independently, rather than do as instructed, had garnered James’ admiration of his governor. That Lewis also possessed a dry, wicked sense of humour which sparked Hathaway’s own had been a boon. Lewis was smart, dogged, and a delight to work with.

James had long accepted that he looked forward to seeing Lewis every morning. Enjoyed their exchange of wry comments: in- jokes that rarely made sense to anyone outside their circle of two. He’d admitted, out loud, that if Lewis retired, he’d quit the force. He couldn’t imagine working with any other officer. Could no longer conceive of living without the bond, the tight-knit communication he and Robbie shared. 

It was the other feelings that surprised him, swamping his emotions at the most unexpected moments. Love. Not the philia, or brotherly love St Paul referred to so often in the New Testament. Nor storge, the natural love and affection of family members. 

_Eros._ Romantic love. He loved Robbie. He’d repressed the truth, even from himself, for so long that the ache in his soul had become a familiar presence, hidden deeply. Years ago, he’d denied Will McEwan’s homosexuality, and where had that gotten him? Questioning his own faith, with Will’s life in tatters.

 _“On the road from Gethsemane to Calvary, I lost my way,_ ” indeed. 

At roughly the same time James had been dealing with his own bisexuality, Will had committed suicide. He would never forgive his cruelty to Will, and had forced himself to confront the truth. He preferred men. Women had their charms, but all things being equal, there was only one person on Earth who had made an imprint on his heart. 

Every day, James walked on the road—not to Gethsemane, but through Oxford-- beside a good, decent man. With Robbie Lewis, he would not lose his way. Robbie was the rock he planted his faith upon. And if that was the smallest bit profane, so be it. It was God’s own truth. 

That he loved the man would stay a secret. He would turn his back and walk away before he did any thing that would damage Robbie’s life or career. Yet, he couldn’t stop himself from looking.

How strange that he’d finally found his type in a slightly rumpled man old enough to be—well—his very much older brother. Brown hair salted with gray falling over a broad forehead. Green-gray eyes intently examining a crime scene, alert to the smallest minutiae. Arms crossed over a broad chest, staring down a suspect trying to pull a fast one. A brain that constantly astonished James with insight and wisdom, without the flashy quotations and academic trivia James could toss about.

That dear face. Such beauty, such nobility of spirit and heart in a fiftyish year old man with a taste for beer and opera. He and James seemed so opposite, and yet fit together as if bespoke from whole cloth.

For too long, he kept his secret, content to be beside Lewis, either on a case or those tranquil evenings sipping beer whilst sitting by the Thames. He understood that a confession of love would spoil these moments, shatter their easy camaraderie into something far more fragile and fraught.

That moment when time stopped, when he revealed his secret came so abruptly, in such a small way. Those nights he’d lain awake, rehearsing a speech that would never be spoken, when he’d searched for the exact words to convey his heart. Nope, those went straight out the window.

“If Barton was seeing Douglass’ wife then he’d have a motive for killing his partner,” Lewis mused, tapping a finger on the car door handle.

James nodded, content to listen to Lewis wrestling with the incongruent tidbits they’d collected so far. Lucas Douglass had been found stabbed through the heart with an antique cutlass from the HMS Amethyst, a Royal Navy vessel that had fought in the Battle of Pacocha in 1877. Both Douglass and Barton had written numerous books on British ships of the 19th century. 

“The weapon was there, over the mantel, at hand,” Lewis continued, gesturing as if he could see the old blade, and had snatched it from its moorings over the fireplace.

Steering the car through the narrow streets of Oxford was frequently tedious. Old fashioned roads meant for horse travel barely contained modern two lane vehicular traffic, particularly on a rainy day. James kept both eyes on the Volkswagen in front of him, letting Lewis ponder the evidence. Far too early to stamp _fait accompli_ on this murder—despite the obvious use of weapon and the fact that Barton was nowhere to be found. Likely as much to be someone he and Lewis hadn’t interviewed yet.

“Their secretary at the College will have some insight,” James put in, to show he was paying attention and not jonesing for a cigarette. 

Tourists, disappointed that the wet had ruined their sightseeing, stood in soggy clumps on the pavement. 

Must be Americans, James thought uncharitably, when a man in a yellow coat stepped off the kerb looking to the left instead of right. As James slammed his foot on the brake, a lorry turned into the roadway directly in his path. Heart in his mouth, James jerked the steering wheel one handed, thrusting his left arm out to brace Robbie, protecting him at all costs.

“Oh, God!” It was a prayer. Don’t let him hit the poor sod in yellow, don’t let him smash the Vauxhall into the lorry. Save Lewis from going through the windscreen.

The tyres slid on the wet roadway, hydroplaning sideways, swinging around to the right in the direction James had pulled the steering wheel. He turned his head the opposite way—why, he wasn’t sure. To apologise? Or simply to have one last look at that beloved face before his inevitable demise.

He caught Robbie’s eye, rediscovering the depth and breadth of his love there, while the world revolved past them. He could feel Lewis’ heart pounding as if he held it in the palm of his hand, and awe flowed through his soul. 

“I love you,” he said.

The lorry driver laid on his horn, going wide around the tourists. 

“Ya’ll drive on the wrong side!” the man in yellow shouted, brandishing one finger in defiance of British driving laws. 

“James!” Lewis barked, bracing himself on the car door.

The heavy car came to a halt facing oncoming traffic, which thankfully, was not oncoming. Wide-eyed drivers hovered over their dashboards, watching the spectacle unfold like spectators at a circus. James heaved in a panicked breath, unclenching his fingers from the steering wheel. He was trembling, not at all sure he could stand.

A bloody miracle. No fatalities. Not even a scratched bumper. The lorry was trundling off without a backward glance.

“Right, then.” Lewis gave himself a quick shake and practically leapt from the car to reassure the public, brandishing his warrant card like a shield.

 _To get away,_ Hathaway whispered to himself. He’d revealed too much, and lost any opportunity. Might as well—

“James?” Lewis called, looking over his shoulder. “Car drivable?” 

Tourists were clustered around Lewis, asking questions and making comments that James couldn’t quite hear. He climbed out of the Vauxhall to discover that the sun was shining. When the hell had that happened? There were large puddles on the ground. The line of vehicles began to inch around his car, tyres splashing through the rushing gutters, soaking the bottoms of his trouser legs. 

Just to add some cosmic punctuation to the entire cock-up, a rainbow arched high over the street, colours brilliant against the bruised clouds still punching the blue sky.

The celestial display was enough of a distraction that the last of the pedestrians had walked away by the time James made a complete inspection of the car. He leaned against the boot and lit a cigarette, drawing in a needed hit of nicotine. He should be turning the car around and getting on with the investigation but couldn’t quite bring himself to do so.

“Lad.” Lewis put a gentle hand on James’ flank, almost as if he needed a steadying handhold to negotiate the step off the kerb over water in the gutter. “I would have saved you, as well.”

“I—“ James began, tucking his chin to look Robbie in the eyes. “Won’t happen again, sir,” he said, by way of apology. Wipe the slate clean and start over, as his mother used to tell him so long ago. 

“We’ve the College to get to,” Lewis said gravely.

So he was all for putting it behind them, as well. Good. Dusted and done. James nodded, tossing his fag into the gutter. The lit cigarette hissed as it hit the water.

“And then we need to talk,” he continued, hand warm and solid against James’ side.

It remained there far too long for a matey pat. Moments before he moved away, Robbie gave the smallest squeeze. Almost something James had imagined so many times before. Except when he raised his eyes, he saw the love reflected in Lewis’ face.

His heart skipped and stuttered two beats before speeding up.

Then they were in the car and James had to use all his concentration on reorienting the Vauxhall. Could he have imagined the look that passed between them? Was he projecting his own perceptions and expectations onto a completely normal show of assistance after a harrowing situation?

He felt cack-handed and off-kilter all through the interview with Mrs Mallard. She’d been secretary to both Douglass and Barton for five years. Seen them through the ups and downs of their partnership in both their academic careers as well as authorship. 

Even she could make a case for Barton running Douglass through with the cutlass.

“He wasn’t a kind man, not our Lucas,” she said simply, with a rueful twist of her lips. “Married Savinia when she was under eighteen—simply shocking, I thought. Then squandered her money, buying expensive trinkets right and left.”

“That cutlass was worth over four hundred pounds,” James put in, pulling the amount from memory. He’d read up on the Battle of Pacocha and British naval history in general the night before. Instead of sleeping. To keep away intrusive visions of himself and Robbie. Hadn’t entirely worked. Now he had a kinky nautical fantasy instead. Captain Lewis and his first mate, James.

Completely inappropriate.

“Right,” Lewis said with a wry glance at James. “And you haven’t any idea where Barton was at the time of the murder?”

She shook her head, lifting her shoulders in a defeated shrug. “I’m that sorry Jason felt like he had nothing… to lose. Savinia—well, she’s not worth his regard, let me say that.”

“Call us if there’s anything else you can recall,” James said, handing her a card with their phone number. Felt like he was going through the motions. He only had to get through the drink with Lewis, resign as his bagman and then—what? He’d burned all the bridges back to the Catholic Church. That was a non-starter, and he knew it. Best transfer to another police department, one where he wouldn’t have to interact with Lewis on an hourly basis. 

London? Large and anonymous. He’d be a cog in the machine.

_He’d hate it._

Without a word said between them, James and Lewis walked from the College to a pub just down the road. Lewis secured a table near the back whilst James ordered their usuals. It all felt ordinary, yet James was fraught with anxiety and every moment was agony.

“Sir,” he began, placing the beer glasses on the table. He’d tried rehearsing a speech but his analytical brain power had deserted him. He allowed himself a brief look at Robbie’s dear face and dropped his gaze, centring on the beer.

“Sit down, James.”

He dropped onto the wooden bench, already out of breath. A swallow of beer didn’t help at all, the liquid sloshing around in his belly.

“I know what’s going on,” Lewis said, sounding surprisingly conversational. Not adversarial nor—

_Angry. No condemnation._

James managed to squeeze some air into his locked down lungs. 

“I’d not expected that you—“ Lewis paused, taking a drink as if he too had to marshal his thoughts, “of all people would.” He paused. “I’d thought about it, of course.” He shook his head with a sad smile. “Who could look at you and not be—“

“What?” James lifted his chin, confused. This wasn’t going at all how he’d expected.

“Aye,” Lewis said, which didn’t clear anything up at all. He moved his hand slightly, until his fingertips brushed James’ on the tabletop. “I think—“ 

He looked directly at James, no artifice—not that Robbie Lewis every had any to start with--and nodded. It was as if all the windows blew open and a warm, sweet wind blew in, heralded by that rainbow from an hour ago. James grinned, quite looped. One sip of beer didn’t generally have this effect on him.

“We feel the same way,” Lewis said quietly, brushing his forefinger over James’. “I never believed you’d…”

“Feel the same?” James repeated, sure he was babbling. He wanted to sweep his governor into his arms and dance them all around the pub. Neither of them were the dancing sort. Nor the hugging in public sort, either.

_Still._

“I’d sensed that you didn’t just favour women,” Lewis said obliquely.

James flashed back on their goofy discussion about York bars and Loaded magazine, and nodded. “I like variety,” he amended.

“There’s no reason you would have known,” Lewis began, eyes flicking around the room as if monitoring for danger. A copper’s instinct. “That before I was married, I did not have a preference, either way.”

“Until you met Valerie,” James put in. Would he come in a distinct second?

“Valerie was a special case.” Lewis went briefly still, eyes distant but no longer seeing the patrons at the bar. “She completed me. When she died, she left a space—and I instinctively knew no-one else would fill it in. But you—“ He smiled, miming holding a small cardboard sign with an aloof but put-upon expression that James recognized as his own. “Walked right up, established yourself and created a space for yourself.”

“Fit right in?” James matched Lewis’ grin. “From that first day?” he scoffed. “You were jet lagged and in need of a long kip.” 

“That I was.” Lewis suddenly drained his glass. “And still am.” He stood with alacrity.

“Surely not jet-lagged.” Accustomed to following his lead, James stood as well. He didn’t need the rest of the beer to feel drunk. _“Where will thou lead me?”_ he quoted. Always the fallback position, diving into academia when he needed a firm foundation.

“Hamlet,” Lewis said with a satisfied wink. “Proves that we spend a great deal of time together when I can reference your obscure quotations.”

“Surely not obscure,” James countered, because he could. And knew it was expected. Would that they could link arms walking out of the pub, like any couple. Never happen. They would always maintain a proper and respectable working relation. Could he hope for something deeper, more sustaining behind closed doors?

Exactly why he would follow Lewis.

“Hamlet is one of the most famous plays in the world.” He held open the door to let Robbie pass.

“True.” Lewis waited until Hathaway had walked onto the pavement, swinging in next to him so that the fabric of their sleeves brushed and they were perfectly in step. “However, I am no ghost. Don’t expect me to disappear, no matter what happens beyond tonight.”

Beyond tonight. So he envisioned a future, as well? 

“I never, for one moment, thought of you as my father’s ghost,” James replied self-righteously, pulling himself to full height. Part joke, part reassurance that while he was cognizant of the age difference between them, it did not change his heart. He glanced at Lewis, buoyed by that fond, slightly exasperated smile. Pure Robbie. “Possibly his much younger…”

“You’ll pay for that one, lad,” Lewis went down heavily on the last word, playfully smacking him on the arm. 

The motion propelled James into a narrow opening between the pub and a row of shops. This late in the afternoon, all were shuttered or closing, and few pedestrians lingered. The air held palpable damp—rain threatening soon. James was barely aware of any of that, only Robbie’s closeness in the shadows.

Had he planned this? Was it calculated or happenstance? Whichever, they moved as one, bristly cheeks brushing and then the smooth glide of lips. Warmth, need, desire. A swell of passion. James breathed in, his mouth opening, staring down into Robbie’s eyes. 

Sure a purity of spirit, a gift of self and love in the space of a moment. They kissed, and James slid his arms under Robbie’s jacket, spreading his palms on smooth cotton to feel the strong expanse of his lover’s back. This is what he’d been missing. The strength and power of a man in his arms.

 _The_ man he’d been waiting for.

Who had—inexplicably—been waiting for him.

It knocked him on his heels. How had this been so easy and yet fraught with danger? Should they be kissing in an alley like a couple of teens drunk on hormones?

Robbie filled him with life, with hope and a promise of more with a single kiss. Well, several kisses, but who was counting.

“My head’s spinning.” Lewis braced himself against the wall of the pub with a chuckle. “And unless you want to have to call A&E, best we’d be doing more of this in my lounge. On the sofa.”

“Yours?” James raised his eyebrows, brushing a stray cobweb out of Robbie’s hair.

“Closer,” he said, raising his hand to clasp James’ ever so briefly. “Or d’you fancy a longer drive?” The lilt suggested so many things in store.

“Closer is excellent,” James agreed, legging it to the car. 

He’d found his type. Or more specifically, he’d found his one and only. He preferred slightly rumpled, with a receding hairline, clear, intelligent eyes and a rapier wit. 

No one else need apply.

FIN


End file.
